


Votes that Count

by greerwatson



Category: RENAULT Mary - Works
Genre: Gen, ITOWverse, Metafiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 14:26:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3899632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greerwatson/pseuds/greerwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the community clubhouse, Mary Renault's characters discuss the British election of 2015.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Votes that Count

“You’re frustrated? _I’m_ surprised,” said the Secretary to Simonides.  “Why this has grabbed their attention, I don’t know; but it certainly has.  Just look at them, hanging on every update.  They’ve been talking about it for weeks, whichever of them has been here.  So all I can say to you is, ‘Wait.’  I mean, I do see your point:  they’ve been hogging the computer quite unfairly.  But the election will be over soon enough.”

She glanced over at Mic Freeborn—the most tech-savvy of the mid-twentieth-century crowd—who was browsing through Google links to find an up-to-date vote count.  Looking over his shoulder were Ralph Lanyon; Kit Anderson’s friend, Maurice; Helen Vaughan; and Rupert Clare.

“Damn it, those polls were utterly wrong,” said Maurice, looking both indignant and chagrined.

Simonides sighed.  He left the library, and, after hesitating in the hall, thought he might take a walk round the pond.  However, spotting the philosophers under the willows, he decided instead to stay on the porch.  It was a pleasant day, sunny and warm without the heat of summer.   He sat on the swing and enjoyed the breeze.  Distantly, he could hear voices, both inside and out; but he forbore to listen closely.

After a little while, the Secretary followed him out, though she remained standing in the doorway, sipping from her mug of coffee.

“You aren’t interested in discussing politics?” he asked her.

“Not my country, not my election,” she said simply.

He sat back, closing his eyes; and she looked past him, over to the little group in the shade by the water, and—being more inquisitive (or less polite)—strained to hear what they were talking about.

“…not democracy as _I_ think of it,” said Lysis firmly.  “Demogogery at its most primitive, judging by the speeches we heard.”

“I have heard Demosthenes,” said Aristotle.  “These twenty-first century ‘politicians’ are no match for the best of Greek orators.  I wonder at the fascination, I truly do:  the Moderns—at least the _principal_ characters (I do not speak of the servants)—for the most part have read the written versions of ancient oratory in the course of their education.  They must surely see that there is no comparison.”

“It’s not a question of comparison,” said Alexias shortly.  “This isn’t philosophy:  it’s the future of their city—their ‘country’, I should say—”

“Their _countries_ ,” corrected Phaedo.  “Though I do not understand why, if this Scotland was conquered, the English let them talk of taking back their freedom….”  He stopped.

“ _Without_ force of arms,” said Plato, “which is an interesting novelty.”

“Don’t tell Alexander,” said Alexias, more than a little amused.  “From all I gather, he has a hard way with rebels.”

It was a moot warning, the Secretary thought.  The Great King could hardly take his armies across the interfictional dimensions.  She drank the last of the coffee in her mug, and went back indoors to the kitchen.  There, she found Mrs Kearsey, the housekeeper- _du-jour_ , who was making a rhubarb pie.

“Can I get you something?” she asked, pausing with the pastry half rolled out.

“No, don’t let me bother you,” said the Secretary.  “I just want some more coffee.”  She put on the kettle and rinsed out her mug.

“You’d do better with a nice cuppa,” said Mrs Kearsey.  “Though, if you really don’t want tea, _I_ can make you coffee if you like.  You don’t need to bother yourself with it.  Why don’t you go back and chat with the others.  I can bring it in to you.”

“No, no, that’s all right.”  The Secretary had had Mrs Kearsey’s coffee once—just once—and had no wish to repeat the experience.  It had been made properly from ground beans; but the secret of good coffee seemed utterly to elude all the English housekeepers, though their tea was generally excellent.

The kettle came to a whistling boil; and she poured the hot water onto the freeze-dried crystals (themselves a marvel, in their own way, though she had become accustomed to the kitchen providing each with their own preferences in food and drink).

“So, you’re not interested in the election, then?” asked Mrs Kearsey.  She reached for a pie plate.

“I think not,” said the Secretary.  She pulled out a chair and sat down, stretching out her legs comfortably.  “I never could get the hang of foreign politics.”

“Ah, well,” said Mrs Kearsey.

“It’s not foreign to _you_ , of course.  Or don’t you vote?”

Mrs Kearsey snorted.  “After all the fuss when I was a girl, ‘Votes for Women’ and all that?  Yes, of course I do.  But I’ve got better things to do than gab about it like them in there.  Keeping a guest house is a full time job.”  She trimmed around the pastry and began crimping the edges.

“Makes sense to me,” agreed the Secretary.  “It’s not _our_ election, anyway.”

“Exactly,” said Mrs Kearsey.  “Whichever Book you come from, this is nothing to do with any of _us_.  There isn’t one of us can vote in it.”


End file.
